The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride

by Nadia Lee

  Benedict lets out a small, muffled laugh. He knows how much I hate my half-sibling. “No.”

  “Good, because it wouldn’t help.”

  She’s not ugly, per se, but her features are off. Unbalanced. Every single one of them. And living in L.A. makes it a hundred times worse, since the city’s full of gorgeous women. Every small town’s prettiest girl makes the journey and dreams of becoming a movie star.

  “It’s for her wedding.” Benedict manages a calm, non-laughing tone.

  “Didn’t she already get fifty thousand from her mother?” I demand. Although it supposedly came from her mother, it’s really my damned money. Father was many things, but he wasn’t a font of cash.

  “Eighty, actually. And yes, she did. But apparently she needs more.”

  “Tell her no. She’s lucky I’m not praying for a tsunami for the wedding.”

  She plans to get married on a beach. With flower-festooned arches and rose petals in the air. The entire idea is ridiculous. The sea winds will sweep every petal away before the ceremony starts.

  I wonder if fifty K could buy her a new and improved brain? She needs that more than a ludicrous wedding to a trust-fund moron. That way, their children won’t end up with turkey-level IQs.

  “I don’t think the chances of a tidal wave are particularly high.”

  “Can’t you sacrifice a goat or something? Appease Poseidon?”

  “Sorry. Outside my work scope,” Benedict says.

  “What ‘work scope’? Celebrity assistants do anything their bosses want them to do. It’s not like I don’t pay you enough.” His salary and benefits are at least twenty percent above the usual pay for celebrity assistants. I make sure to compensate my people well. “Make it a virgin goat.”

  “I’m quite sure it’s illegal to sacrifice an animal within the city limits.”

  “I’ll bail you out if you get arrested.”

  “It won’t look good if you have an assistant who gets arrested for caprinicide. Bad publicity.”

  “For what?”

  “Caprinicide. Caprine is the adjective for goats. You know, like bovine for cows, ursine for bears, porcine for pigs…”

  Benedict the aspiring writer. Of course he would know a word like that.

  “Fine,” I say grudgingly. My public image is important.

  I run a hand along my jaw. I take after my mother one hundred percent, and that apparently means I’m too pretty for my own good. I suppose I’m good-looking, but it’s hard to be impressed with something I see every time I glance in the mirror. They say familiarity breeds contempt. In my case, it’s bred indifference.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m unaware of my good fortune. It’s this face that’s allowing me to make an amazing living as a model and actor. The two Netflix dramas I starred in did well, so offers for more acting roles are flooding in.

  “Also, I’m going on vacation for two months starting next Monday,” Benedict says. “Just a reminder, in case you decide to consult Aiden about the legal fine points of massacring goats, although I’m not sure if animal rights are his thing.”

  “What?” I say, stunned. “Vacation?”

  “You approved it last month, remember?”

  “I did? Was I sober?” He might’ve sprung it on me while I was drunk. Or exhausted from late-night filming or during some six-a.m. photoshoot. There’s no way I said yes without a temp to replace him.

  “Oh, quite. It was during your breakfast. You also had a cup of coffee before you approved, which I made for you and waited for you to finish because I didn’t want you to claim I took advantage. I told you I needed two months off to finish my screenplay, and you said okay.”

  Hmm… I vaguely remember him saying something about wanting to win an Oscar for a screenplay. I guess that means he has to write one first. I just didn’t realize it would be so soon!

  “So who’s going to be my assistant while you’re gone?”

  “You told me you’d figure something out.”

  “I did? I must’ve been high.”

  “Nobody gets high off one cup of coffee. Anyway… You don’t have anybody in mind?”

  “No.” Fuck. There’s no way I can live two months without an assistant who can act as a gatekeeper. And bring me coffee. And groceries and anything else that might pop into my head.

  “Well, you still have today and the weekend.” Benedict sounds singularly unsympathetic.

  “I don’t have any résumés. And I’m in Korea!”

  “It’s only for two months. You just need an ironclad NDA, which Aiden has already drafted for you.”

  “Oh yeah, that sounds super simple,” I say. “You know what? You aren’t going anywhere unless you get me a replacement.”

  “What?”

  “It’s only for two months, and you still have today and the weekend. And you happen to be in L.A.”

  “Come on!”

  “Less complaining, more working.”

  Benedict sighs. “Fine. I’ll find someone before I leave.”

  “Thank you. It wasn’t that hard, was it?”

  The second I hang up, a new flight ticket pops up on my phone. I check it and sigh. The gate is at the opposite end of the terminal. Of course. At least the lounge for first-class passengers is near the gate.

  I turn around and start walking through the crowd, getting the usual looks. This airport is cavernous. Well, cavernous might not be the best word—it is bright with sunlight. But holy mother of God, you could run a marathon in here.

  At least the walk will give me the time to gather my thoughts. Why the hell didn’t I remember this vacation? And how is Benedict going to find somebody decent?

  Argh.

  Although I told him to get a temp or else, I don’t want to be that kind of jerk celebrity boss who makes him cancel his time off. I know an actress who called her assistant to get the poor woman to handle freakin’ phone calls when her mom died, and the assistant quit, which the actress deserved. I don’t want Benedict quitting on me. We work well together, and I like the guy.

  Whether I get a temp assistant or not, it’s only for two months. Should I just rent a Doberman to keep people away? But then there are calls, emails and deliveries and things. I can’t deal with all of it myself. No single human can deal with it, because the mailmen drop off a mountain of stuff every day. If I weren’t busy trying to figure out my next acting role, I might consider letting it just sit, but…

  There’s no way around it. I need somebody.

  I take a deep breath and stretch my neck to release the tension at the base of my skull. There are event stages set up along the concourse. A soft piano melody comes from one to my left as I stride by. There’s a black baby grand on it, and a young woman is playing. She isn’t bad. Actually, she sounds pretty good, in my amateur opinion. I started taking piano lessons when I was ten, but gave up after a couple of years. My fingers are too clumsy for anything other than moderately paced scales, and I didn’t want to bother if I couldn’t play Schubert’s Impromptu Opus 90, Number 2 with an acceptable degree of proficiency.

  My teacher complained that I was fixated on Schubert. But then, she didn’t know what that piece meant to me, and didn’t want to understand when I tried to explain it to her.

  The piece the woman is playing is mellow and lovely. Soothing, even, and the mild headache that’s been aggravating me starts to dissipate. But I maintain my pace. I want to hit the lounge, grab a shower and some snacks before it’s time to board.

  But I slow and then stop when she begins the Impromptu.

  I heard the piece for the first time when I was ten. A girl was playing it on a white Steinway baby grand. Listening to her was like holding a mug of hot chocolate on a freezing, snowy day. It was a tense time in my life, and a warm sweetness spread through me, all the way to my heart, giving me not only comfort but a sense of wellbeing, that everything would be fine.

  I own every recording of this piece out there. And I listen to them all the time. But none
recapture the feeling I had when I heard it that first time. I’ve never gotten that sense of comfort again.

  But now… This pianist is giving me exactly that. And something more. A frisson of electricity that brings all my nerve endings to attention.

  I turn and study her more carefully. She seems to be in her early to mid-twenties. Straight auburn hair frames her small face just so. Her lashes are lowered, her full mouth set in a straight line. She keeps her shoulders straight, her slender arms and long fingers relaxed and fluid as they move. The Impromptu ends all too soon. But then, played at the correct tempo, it’s not even five minutes long.

  She launches into another piece, this one tumultuous and rapid. Her hands are a blur as they fly over the keys like a hummingbird’s wings. I wonder how long she practiced to master the instrument like that, then decide probably too damn much time, much more than I’m capable of.

  I want her to go back to Schubert. But I wait. There’s a command to her performance that says she won’t appreciate an interruption.

  Thankfully, the new piece isn’t long. She pauses for a moment and exhales softly. I step forward.

  “Are you a concert pianist?” I ask. “If so, could you tell me your name so I can buy some of your recordings?”

  She lifts her head and turns toward me. Her steady dark brown gaze hits me, lances me to the spot. For a moment, I can’t move or breathe. It’s like somebody’s sending an electric shock through my system to restart my heart. But as soon as the shock’s gone, my whole body feels tight, my blood hot and flowing rapidly through my veins. All my senses seem sharper, as though they've just awakened.

  I breathe in a little bit through my mouth. It feels like I can taste the air, the cool, industrial flavor of a large international airport mixed with something a little more intimate. Her scent. Sweet and citrusy, with a hint of flowers.

  If I were the romantic type, I might think I was in a Hollywood freeze frame where a guy falls in love at first sight. Thankfully, my head’s screwed on tighter than that.

  Instead of answering, the woman looks at me oddly. Maybe she could tell I was having a moment.

  Or maybe she can tell I’m starting to get hard, like some teenager. Damn it. A man shouldn’t be having a libido surge when he’s been sitting on a damned tarmac, had his flight delayed and is tired and jet-lagged.

  Or maybe that’s why my penis is out of control. Maybe if I were better rested…?

  “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to pick you up or anything.” I shift a little to better hide my unmanageable reaction to her nearness.

  Then it hits me: maybe she doesn’t speak English. Shit. I don’t speak Korean. Actually, she might not even be Korean. She could be any Asian connecting through to somewhere. Incheon is one of the biggest hubs in the world.

  “I don’t play concerts,” she finally says. “I’m not a professional.”

  Oh, good. So we can communicate. My dick keeps saying we should hook up, but there isn’t enough time. Transiting, Declan, transiting. Time to go home soon.

  The fact that she doesn’t have any recordings is disappointing. It’s taken over two decades to find somebody who can re-create my unforgettable childhood comfort. Her being hot is another point, but that’s probably just due to me being exhausted. Not as much control as usual.

  Should I offer her a job as my personal pianist?

  Maybe not. Her Georges Hobeika dress alone is worth thousands of dollars. I know because Ella whined endlessly to get me to buy one for her—and failed. A woman who can afford an outfit like that doesn’t need a job.

  So I go for the second best option. “If you take requests, would you mind playing that Schubert again?”

  Her eyebrows go up. “Why that piece?”

  “It’s…comforting.”

  She regards me for a moment, then nods. “Sure.”

  This is the second time I’m listening to it within a few minutes, and I wonder if the second time is going to be as good as the first. It usually isn’t.

  Her fingers start moving. The rapid notes flow like the gentle murmuring of a clear stream in spring, and the second time is actually better, like the previous one was just a warmup.

  When she’s finished, I murmur, “Perfect. Absolutely brilliant.”

  Her cheeks flush, pleasure shining in her eyes. She leans a little closer, then squints at me. Maybe she’s recognized who I am.

  I want to ask her her name and if she has an interest in making some recordings. I’ll pay all the expenses.

  Better yet, she can play it once more now, and I’ll record it with my phone.

  But before I can make the suggestion, an airport-wide announcement calling for some flight comes over the speaker system. She jerks, looks up, then checks her phone.

  “That’s my flight,” she says, and steps down from the stage.

  Fuck, no, no, no.

  “Wait,” I say as the announcement continues in English. I catch something about Los Angeles, and I place my hand on her elbow. “Are you going to L.A.?”

  “Yes. Are you on my flight?”

  “No. I’m on the next one.” Mine better be the next flight. “Here.” On sheer impulse, I pull out my card and hand it to her. “I live in the city, so call me if you want to hang out or…whatever.”

  She takes the card, but doesn’t look at it. “But why? You don’t know me.”

  “Any woman who can play Schubert like that is worth getting to know.”

  She smiles. Her entire demeanor changes from prim and slightly standoffish to warm and friendly. It reminds me of the happy feeling you get when the sky’s cloudless and the breeze is just cool enough to be refreshing.

  “Okay.” She puts the card in her purse. “Gotta go. Don’t be shocked if I really do call you.” She waves as she starts walking off.

  “I’ll try not to faint,” I murmur. I’m never shocked when women call. It always happens within twenty-four hours, like they’re afraid if they make me wait too long I might lose interest. No reason this pianist will be any different.

  As she vanishes into the crowd, I realize I didn’t get her name. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll have it soon enough.

  Chapter Four

  Yuna

  I walk rapidly down the corridor to my gate, even though I don’t have to hurry to make my flight. The call was for pre-boarding, to help anyone who needs special assistance, as well as premium cabin flyers. They’ll be loading passengers for at least the next fifteen minutes.

  But the need to put some distance between me and that man is so overwhelming that I’m acting like the airline just announced, “If you aren’t on the plane in the next two seconds, you aren’t going anywhere. Buh-bye!”

  And no, I’m not reacting like this because he acted creepily. The problem is actually—

  He looked at me with the most mesmerizing eyes I’ve ever seen. It isn’t that I’ve never seen gray eyes. Americans occasionally have them, and I’ve spent a lot of time in America. But I’ve never seen such a gorgeous shade. It reminds me of the full moon reflected on a deep, dark pool. His lashes are thicker and longer than mine. And upswept, like he used a curler and mascara in the morning, although I know he didn’t.

  The sunlight pouring through the glass panels encasing the concourse accentuated his high cheekbones and the bold slant of his inky eyebrows. His lips were almost too full for a man. If it weren’t for the firm line his mouth was set in, I might even say it looked slightly vulnerable—the kind of mouth you want to kiss so he knows he’s not alone.

  I couldn’t seem to break eye contact. It was as though his gaze was commanding my attention. All my nerve endings prickled like a current was running through me. My fingertips tingled against the piano keys, and I wished I had some water to wet my mouth.

  How embarrassing.

  Now I feel hot. I’ve been acting ridiculous because I saw a truly panty-melting face for the first time in my life, in person. Shallow, maybe, but I appreciate gorgeous men, and that one tops my
list. I wonder if I’ve seen him before, though. Something felt vaguely familiar…

  He’s not a classically trained musician—he didn’t give off the vibe. Not one of the diplomats or businessmen I’ve run into at some high-society function. And he definitely isn’t one of my parents’ hundred dossiers. I would have remembered that face.

  What are the odds that he has the right family connections, stock portfolio and real estate holdings to pass my parents’ inspection…?

  No, no. Don’t even think about it! That’s like giving in. Admitting defeat to Eugene. I said I was going to get a job, so get a job I will. If I change my mind and go pursue some hottie, Eugene’s going to call me fickle and unable to follow through on anything. Another reason I should marry one of the dossier men my family picked out.

  I’d rather eat fast food burgers for the rest of my life.

  On second thought, no. I don’t want to gain too much weight and have crappy cholesterol and high blood pressure. Okay, compromise: I’ll just starve for the rest of my life.

  Or maybe if that stranger likes to hear me play Schubert, I’ll charge him money, even though I’ve never charged for a performance. Dad doesn’t like the idea of me performing for a crowd. He says it’s like begging for crumbs of love from people who don’t deserve any piece of me, and he warned me repeatedly he wouldn’t pay for a conservatory education. I only got to attend the Curtis Institute of Music because you get a free ride if you’re good enough to be admitted.

  But I’m going to ignore Dad on this point because he’s siding with Eugene. There’s no way my brother froze all my assets without our parents’ consent. A small ember of anger lights in my heart over the betrayal. They say I’m important, but not when it’s what I want versus what they want.

  So if that man asks again, I’ll do it. I do have his card, after all. I’ll call him and…

  My step falters as I recall the second Impromptu. I could sense the weight of his gaze. It slid over my face, then lingered on my fingers as they moved across the keys. I never realized that someone’s scrutiny could have a texture and feel all its own. His focused attention made me hyperaware of everything—every hammer action and vibration of string, the cool air filling and leaving my lungs, the warmth where his eyes touched my skin, the odd flutter in my belly like it was the first time I was playing in front of people.